Flight of the Hawk: The River Page 3

  “And you think of your duty,” Lisa countered, inclining his head.

  “That’s what makes us such good allies.” Clark ran stubby fingers through his thinning hair. “Our goals are similar: a unified American west, Manuel. You seek such an end because of the economic rewards. I seek it for the long-term security of my country. We work well together since what is good for the country is good for your trade. Together, you and I, we shall forge the institutions of a gentleman’s democracy in our noble experiment.”

  “More romantic philosophy from Jefferson?”

  “No, Manuel, just facts. The settlers are going to be here someday. When they arrive, I want them to find Indians with whom they will trade, not fight. We have the opportunity to bring two entirely different peoples together to build a stronger whole—like mixing tin with iron.”

  “If the British unsettle the tribes, it will be like the Huron situation all over again,” Lisa said darkly. “Unrelenting warfare. Extermination of entire peoples. I need the river tribes to be satisfied with American supervision. If not, it will mean no trade with the Upper Missouri. Given that the partners are running scared, it would be a disaster for us—and a windfall for the British.”

  Clark was nodding seriously, his eyes on the far wall as he took a deep breath. “It’s in your hands, Manuel. The tribes trust you. If anyone can hold the north, it will be you. My friend, you are worth more than a regiment.”

  Clark paused. He looked up at Lisa, his eyes miserable. “You realize, don’t you? If you get in trouble up there, we can do nothing. No help will be coming from the United States. You will be on your own.”

  “One is always on his own on the upper river, William.” Lisa pondered his brandy, turning the glass in his fingers as he studied the last of the amber liquid. The future dangled by a thread. Nations hung in the balance. A mistake in judgment, a sunk boat, could have consequences that would reach far beyond the life and fortunes of Manuel Lisa and his fur company.

  Lisa studied the patterns of light in the swirling brandy, but they offered no insight for the future.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  Darkness obscured the world, thick, pressing down around Louis Bissonette. Clouds obscured the heavens. Bissonette anxiously creased his brow as he waited on the banks of the Mississippi. Not even the sounds of Saint Louis could be heard here. He squatted in the bullrushes and grimaced as the whining bugs and throngs of mosquitos disturbed his thoughts. Outside of the insects he could hear the mild whisper of wind through the foliage and the slap and gurgle of the waters that swirled and eddied invisibly below him.

  The moist, cool, air was alive with the musky smells of river, mud, and decay. Bissonette sniffed cautiously, drawing the scent of new vegetation into his nose. Along with the smells of nature, he winced at the odor of his own sweat and stale clothing. Bissonette turned his attention again to the river.

  Old Gratiot had given him this job. In the blackness, he smiled. This—like so many other jobs that came his direction—was another way to twist a knife into Manuel Lisa’s back. Antoine Bissonette had been more than Louis’s mentor; the man had raised him, had given him his name. Antoine had deserted from Manuel Lisa’s company of engages back in May of 1807. Lisa had ordered one of his hunters, George Drouillard, to bring Bissonette back “dead or alive.”

  Drouillard—of Lewis and Clark fame—had complied. Severely wounded during his apprehension, Antoine Bissonette had been loaded into a canoe and sent to Saint Charles. Antoine never made it to face trial, dying instead on the river.

  Young Louis Bissonette growled to himself, settling his small frame against a tree. “Murderer!” he hissed in French. “So a man wants to return to his woman and the pleasures of Saint Louis? Should he die for that?”

  Oh, to be sure, they had placed Lisa in irons when he returned from the Upper Missouri. That damned Auguste Chouteau had presided at the trial with Judge Lucas. And what became of it? Chouteau was now Manuel Lisa’s partner in the Missouri Fur Company.

  “So Antoine stole a few blankets? What of it? Were a few miserable blankets worth the life of a man?” Louis questioned the dark.

  Lisa had argued that Bissonette had broken the contract. What was a contract? Words on paper. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Louis spit into the dark waters of the river. The time had come now. There were other forces seeking to expand their influence into the Missouri—and with that new power, a man could reckon old scores. Who knew where these new forces would lead a man seeking vengeance?

  An owl hooted faintly out over the water. The sign?

  Louis reached fumbling fingers down into the grass at his side. He located the shuttered hurricane lantern, lifted it, and slid a thumbnail under the tin. Holding it high, a little sliver of light appeared as he lifted the shutter. The candle inside still burned.

  Several minutes passed before the owl hooted again, closer this time.

  Louis again raised the shutter. Once. Twice. Three times.

  He heard only silence on the water.

  Then came the soft slap of a paddle and the thunk it made as it was shipped. The mysterious man was coming. Perhaps here was the one who would drive the last nail into Manuel Lisa’s coffin.

  “Ye be Bissonette?” a voice heavy with Scot’s brogue asked.

  “Oui. I am sent to meet you.”

  The dark shape of a boat slid onto the shore, and a man stood. Even in the night, Bissonette could see that the newcomer was tall and large of frame. Despite that, he moved with a feral and silent grace as he stepped out of the boat and onto the dark shore.

  “Lead the way, laddie,” the big man said softly. “Ye’ll take me direct t’ the Eagle Tavern. Ye knows the place, aye?”

  “Oui. But I thought you would wish to immediately see—”

  “The tavern. Now, laddie.” A hard hand descended onto Bissonette’s bony shoulders. “Or I’ll find it on me own. Alone. If’n ye catch me meaning.”

  Louis Bissonette led the big man along the back trails, up the steep bluff, and into Saint Louis from the north. He threaded the way through dark streets until he reached the Eagle Tavern.

  “We are here,” he announced as he lifted the latch and ducked into the smoky room, quickly letting his gaze catalog each face. Being Saint Louis, business was fair even at this late hour. A group of boatmen sang their obscene songs in the corner. Several heads were pitched facedown on the greasy wooden tables. The air stank of smoke, stale ale, vomit, and fatty food. Two men faced each other across a table—red-faced over an arm-wrestling contest, while a knot of men hooted behind them. A busty brunette serving girl dodged artfully between the tables, showing enough ankle to proclaim her after-hours occupation.

  Bissonette’s companion pushed roughly past him and strode over to a grimy table. Bissonette got a good look at him in the light and his curiosity piqued. The Scotsman was indeed imposing with strapping shoulders. A shock of thick red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a woolen coat over buckskin breeches that had seen heavy use: the impregnated grease polished black and shiny. A long knife hung at the man’s side; the heavy Nor’west trade rifle he carried was worn but well cared for.

  The question remained: After the mysterious meeting on the river, why had the man wanted to come here and risk discovery? Had he no innate caution? Did the man’s belly rule his good sense?

  Bissonette settled across from the man and studied the face, spattered as it was with freckles; the ruddy features were coarse, surrounding a round nose that had been broken this way and that over the years. The mouth was hidden under a flaming-red beard. But the green eyes stopped Bissonette’s thoughts. Cold eyes, deadly eyes, almost soulless.

  Just as quickly, they changed, and the face lit with a smile.

  “Now, laddie,” the heavy brogue boomed heartily, “this be whot a mon needs fer an empty belly!”

  He laughed and lifted a slablike arm to motion the serving wench. “Corned beef and beans, lassie!” His
voice thundered. “An’ two mugs o’ good pale ale fer me and me friend here!”

  Bissonette tensed and winced. “I do not think this ees wise, mon ami. Gratiot will not like it. Too much attention is not good in this business. What if . . .”

  The green eyes pinned him. A freckled finger stabbed out as the Scotsman growled. “Laddie, I’ve been on the river fer weeks. I dinna come here fer a wee pipsqueak like ye t’ be telling me my business. I’ll deal with Gratiot in me own way.”

  Bissonette swallowed and nodded, shaken to the roots by the warning in those cool green eyes.

  Time to try another approach. “I am Louis Bissonette.” He bowed slightly. “And you are?”

  “Lisa left yet?” The Scotsman ignored the introduction.

  “Non.” Bissonette frowned. “I did not get your name, m’seur.”

  The green eyes might have been ice. “Me name’s none o’ yor business, laddie. Nor is it Gratiot’s. Dinna the correspondence come from New York? Ach, but it did. Ye were waitin’ by the river, laddie, so I know ye knew I was comin’. The less some people know, the healthier they’ll stay. Catch me meaning?”

  “Oui,” Bissonette mumbled, swallowing his dislike of the man. “So long as Manuel Lisa is broken, I do not care who you are or what you are here to do. You are . . .”

  The big man squinted a warning as the tavern girl set two plates of meat, beans, and bread on the table. She shot the Scot a quick look, then lowered her eyes as she caught his interest.

  “What time are ye off work, lassie?” the Scot asked, a toothy smile breaking his red beard.

  Her eyes turned challenging as she smiled. Still bent over, she dropped a shoulder to expose the cleavage of her full breasts. Given the low-cut blouse the view was good. “I’ve an hour yet. There are others ahead of you.” Her voice was husky from too much smoke and shouting over raucous customers’ voices.

  The burly Scot shook his head slightly and flipped a gold coin on the table. “There be none ahead o’ me, lassie.”

  She snapped the coin up before it bounced. “I could be ready now.” Her voice had become intimate, and Bissonette caught her musky odor.

  The Scot laughed from the bottom of his belly. “Nay, lassie! I’ve a need t’ eat first. Let me talk wi’ me friend here, and I’ll let ye know when I’m ready.”

  He dropped his hand to run it up and down her leg. She flipped long brown hair over her shoulder, threw him a parting smile, and swished her way through the mostly empty tables.

  Bissonette pinched his lips between his teeth in the struggle to keep his expression neutral. Was John Jacob Astor out of his mind? Surely, the ruler of the American Fur Company would hire better. Were not Wilson Price Hunt, Robert Stuart, Crooks, and McClellan the sort Astor employed?

  “Do you know when the forts will be built?” Bissonette asked offhandedly.

  “I don’t know, laddie. That’s not me field o’ expertise.” The green eyes narrowed. “They’ll be built, though. Make no exception o’ that. War might slow things down a wee bit, but then, with a solid base on the Pacific, and with control o’ the Great Lakes, we’ll have two ends of the chain. ’Tis the middle that is strategic, eh, Bissonette? The mon who controls the middle, and the tribes there, would be a most important mon, would he not?”

  “Oui, and there ees no one better than Charles Gratiot,” Bissonette proclaimed passionately. “You tell that to Messieur Astor! Better, you will see. I will take you to heem now! Charles will—”

  “Nay, laddie.” His eyes strayed to the serving girl. “I’ve other business t’night.”

  “But Messieur Gratiot will be up waiting. How do you . . . It is not long until morning, non?”

  None of this made sense. What sort of man would place a whore before business with Gratiot?

  The green eyes hardened. “I’ll see Gratiot when I see him. Now, how do I get there?”

  “He ees not hard to find. Everyone in Saint Louis knows Gratiot . . .”

  A hamlike hand slammed the table. The green eyes wilted Bissonette’s courage the way heat did butter. “Don’t try me, laddie!”

  Bissonette quickly drew a map in the grease on the table. “You are here. You go like thees. Past the church, turn, and his house ees here.”

  After the Scot nodded that he had it, Bissonette wiped it away with his palm.

  The Scot studied him carefully. “You know, laddie, ye’re a debility.”

  Bissonette’s heart began to hammer as he sat up straight and glared into the Scotsman’s eyes. “I am no debilitee! I was born in Vincennes!”

  The green eyes flickered, and the Scot waved him off with a freckled hand. “Go on, laddie. Go crawl into whatever hole ye lurks in. I’ll see Gratiot in the morning. Then, I’ll be wanting yer services to show me Saint Louis. We need t’ find a mon before anything else.”

  With that, the big man began shoveling his food with a greasy spoon, ignoring Bissonette’s presence.

  Unsure, Louis rose unsteadily to his feet and looked around the dimly lit room. No one seemed to pay them any attention.

  Chewing his lower lip, Bissonette let himself out into the night and hurried to report to Gratiot, Astor’s agent in Saint Louis.

  The noon sun burned down through a gap in the clouds that following day; Bissonette watched the crowds that surged on Olive Street. The red-haired man who stood beside him continued to make him nervous. More so, even, than he had the night before. In the daylight, Bissonette could see the disdain the arrogant Scot had for him. Even so, the fellow had insisted that young Bissonette lead him around town so he could get the feel of the place.

  The predatory quality that seemed to hang around the Scotsman like the Devil’s own cloak made Bissonette uneasy. He got the quivers every time he so much as turned his back to the big man. Further, neither he nor Gratiot had been able to learn the man’s name. And worse, the redheaded Scot had barely been civil—even to a man of Gratiot’s stature and reputation. A fact that bothered Bissonette a great deal.

  The Scot had checked McKnight and Baird’s camp earlier in the day. One by one, he searched the faces of the men hired to accompany the expedition to Santa Fe—cared not that he was observed doing so. It seemed a terribly un-spylike way for a spy to conduct himself.

  Now they were watching preparations for the Missouri Fur Company’s expedition. The Scot seemed to take it all in, even the way the kegs were packed with hominy and salt pork.

  “Lisa’ll be leaving soon,” the Scot stated blandly.

  “Oui, he leaves tomorrow.”

  “It looks like I didn’t get here any too quick.”

  “Why do we watch the lowly engages? You do not talk to the patrons. They would give you a better understanding of Saint Louis, non?”

  The redheaded man didn’t seem to hear. Instead, his gaze roamed the crowded waterfront and docks, searching each face and studying it intently.

  “You have been in the house of Messieur Astor?” Bissonette tried asking casually.

  “Nay, I’ve not had the privilege.”

  Bissonette looked away and frowned. He’d been of the impression that the Scot was Astor’s special agent. Yet, when the man had talked to Gratiot that morning, and Astor’s plans had been discussed, the canny stranger had skipped around the subject of Astor himself. Somehow—at least in Bissonette’s cunning mind—it didn’t wash any too well.

  “I ’ave heard that Messieur Astor is a very powerful man.”

  “Aye, that he be.”

  “You are zee close friend?”

  “I’d not be sayin that, laddie.”

  “What ees he like?” Bissonette sensed the man’s eyes on his back. The sensation was the same as if a loaded pistol was centered between his shoulder blades. After a time, he could hear the big man shrug. “I do’na know, laddie. I’ve niver met the mon.”

  Bissonette turned and frowned up at the Scot. “But you are his agent, non?”

  The freckled features twisted into a wicked s
mile. “Laddie, d’ye know that yer in a complicated game? One played on a lot of different levels? And the grand prize, wi’ a fortune to be made, is the Upper Missouri. Now, d’ye really think Astor wants me blatherin’ his plans t’ a little pissant of a frog like ye?”

  Bissonette fought to keep his face straight. “Eet is that I am curious. I am . . . I mean I will never meet such a man as Messieur Astor.”

  “Don’t ask so many questions, Frenchy. Tell me, though. What be yor interest in breaking Lisa?”

  “He murdered Antoine Bissonette on zee river. Antoine raised me and gave me a name. It is not blood—but I owed him.” His nerves chewed at him the way mice gnawed salty leather.

  “There, that mon, now. Who might he be?” The Scot was pointing at a thin, bearded, and ragged-looking man who wandered the streets looking into the windows.

  Bissonette squinted at the scarecrow figure and shrugged. “He eez new to Saint Louis. I do not—”

  “Find out. Meet me back at Gratiot’s. I want to know his name, where he stays, who he works for. Do it well, Bissonette. But make sure that he doesn’t know ye’re askin’ aboot him. If he finds oot, I’ll kill ye. Understand, laddie?”

  Bissonette shivered and studied the ragged-looking brown man. He seemed little more than a walking skeleton, so thin was he. Bissonette turned back to the Scotsman to ask a question, but all he saw was the big man’s back disappearing around the corner. Bissonette cursed and muttered. Cautiously he moved out into the street and followed the brown-haired man through the press.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  That summer Gray Bear had decided to accompany Red Feather’s band on a hunting trip through the Powder River’s basin. The band this year consisted of thirty-seven Kuchendukani. Buffalo Eaters—as the horse-mounted Shoshoni living on the plains and basins liked to call themselves.

  That spring Red Feather’s band traveled down the Nagatu’sia. The name translated as Powder River, given the heavy load of silt that made the water all but undrinkable. Hunting had been good as the band made its way north. But increasingly, they had found evidence that the Pa’kiani, the feared Blackfeet, were lurking somewhere in the wide basin between the Powder River Mountains and the Black Hills to the east.